


Strawberry Daiquiri

by Writing-The-Impractical-Jokers (writingfanfic)



Category: Impractical Jokers
Genre: Alcohol, F/M, Fluff, I'd actually kill for a strawberry daiquiri right now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-12-30 21:11:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12117318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-The-Impractical-Jokers
Summary: For the prompt: 'could i request a sfw with sal. something like the reader is a new production assistant for the show and she introduces herself to the group and they're kinda shocked how young she is (26ish) and working for a network like TruTv. Sal is really shy around her, but he really wants to ask her out and confides in the guys to help him out'.Sal is an awkward, awkward boy.





	Strawberry Daiquiri

“…okay. So… here are the finalised versions of the shooting schedules.”

You tuck your hair behind your ear, and Joe smiles at you; you feel a little relief as your stomach settles.  _You can do this_.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” He flicks through it, and nods. “Looks perfect. How’re you settlin’ in?”

Truth be told, you think, as you look over at where Q and Murr are looking at each other with almost-smug expressions, and Sal is watching you like a snake watching a mongoose, you wonder how well it can be going – but everyone seems impressed, and you  _got_  the damn job, so you guess you’ll have to settle for one out of four of… the Impractical Jokers.  _Tenderloins_ , you correct yourself. Oh, whatever. At least Joe’s nice.

“Fine,” you grin, putting on your showbiz smile, and as you walk to the door, you bite your lip, leaning against the wall to catch your breath.  _Oh god…_  You just need to stop having a minor anxiety attack every time you see them! That’d be great.

“ _She looks like she’s barely outta high school._ ”

You freeze. That was Q’s voice, you know that.  _Peek not at a keyhole, lest ye be vexed._  Well, you’re not peeking. You’re… leaning, and if you overhear, well then, they should’ve been subtler.

“ _She’s older than you think! Gahd, Q, you’re an asshole._ ”

“ _Okay, Joey, but she looks about seventeen._ ”

“ _No, she doesn’t._ ”

You raise a hand to your face. You deliberately chose not to wear heavy makeup today – you’ve only been working on the show for two weeks, and you want to make a decent first impression. You’re old enough to have expression as a runner – good experience. Anger wells up inside you, before you push it back down, teeth gritted.

“ _She’s in her mid-twenties, Q. It’s true, man, I was talkin’ to someone about it.”_ Murr. “ _I still wonder how she got the job, though._ ”

“ _You’re gross._ ” That’s Sal talking – your stomach flips, and you smile to yourself a little. “ _She seems good at her job, and… she makes really good coffee. You had that coffee? It’s awesome_.” You bite your lip, smiling a little – coffee-making isn’t exactly what you want to be known for, in fact, your plan is to work your way up to a decent producer job somewhere, but you’ll take it for now, especially if the compliment is coming from…

 _Nope._  That is basically your boss in there, sort of.  _Even if he is a big, handsome bear of a man…_

 _Triple nope._  That’s not what you want or need. More questions about how you got the job. No way, José. You shake your head, hands by your temples, and thus miss the next comment as you walk away.

“ _Sally got a crush on the new girl?_ ”

* * *

“Hey, yo, (Y/N)?”

You look up – New York is bloody cold in November, you’re discovering, and you smile tightly at Q. You don’t have time for this, you think, still a little grumpy about what you heard three days ago. You’ve got armfuls of paper the assistant director has dumped on you with about two words of context, and you want to do well, you really do – hell, you’ve only been on coffee duty twice, so you can’t be doing too badly. Either that, or Sal was lying, you muse…

“You got a minute?”

“Just about, Brian,” you say, and Q nods.

“Okay. Some of the crew and me, Murr, and Sal are goin’ out on Friday for a couple’a drinks, are you in?” He pauses, and you watch. “…are you… no offence, but are you  _old_ enough to drink?”

“No offence?” you say, a little sharply, before your brain catches up and you bite your lip. Q, to his credit, bites his lip too, and then exhales; your brain picks a great time to take the lock off of your tongue, and you exhale. “I heard you talking about my age. I’m old enough to have this job, Brian.”

“You did?” he asks, eyes wide, and you begin planning your walk out of the door with all your stuff. “When?”

“Like… three days ago.” You shrug, and exhale.  _Damage control_! “You know, I’m… I’m old enough to have this job. I’m old enough to have work experience enough to get this job. So… I am old enough to drink. Yes, Brian.”

“Stop callin’ me that, it’s weird, call me Q. And I’m sorry for being an ass,” he says, honestly. “So… you’ll come? On Friday?” You pause for a moment, and he extends his hand. “Scout’s honour I won’t be an ass again.”

You smile a little, and shake his hand, and he grins.

“Alright, new girl in the house!” He pats you on the back, and your walkie-talkie blares.

“ _(Y/N)! Where are you?!_ ”

“…better let you get back to work. I’m sorry. Yeah, Sal will give you a ride, he’s not really a drinker,” Q says casually, and your stomach flips again.  _Oh… oh dear._ “See ya then…!”

* * *

“Sal’s car broke down because he’s a moron and thinks that an ‘engine warning’ light means the engine’s still there.”

You can’t contain your disappointment, but Murr seems happy enough to give you a ride to the bar, and you climb into the front seat – two of the grip technicians you don’t recognise are in the back, chattering, and one of them cheers your name when he sees you. You can’t remember his, so you settle for a ‘hey, man!’ and look over at Murr.

“Okay, so we’re meeting everyone else at the bar.” He looks over at you. “Do you have a ride home? Where do you live?” You give him a quick overview of your address. “Okay. So… your boyfriend coming to pick you up? Or… girlfriend?”

“Neither,” you say, smiling, and he nods, a light in his eyes coming on at that. What the…? He grabs his phone, rattling off a quick text, and then grins.

“Just finding a few taxi numbers for you. I wouldn’t wanna take the subway, y’know?”  _Ah._ That’s what that’s about. Okay. It’s quite sweet they’re so worried, but you’re hardly planning to get wasted in front of the people you work for, and you can book your own taxi – at least they’re being nice, you reason.

“Thank you,” you grin, and he starts the car, pulling away.

* * *

“Plaid zeppelin!”

Sal looks at Murr with flat loathing in his eyes, and you giggle to yourself as he looks down at the – rather well-fitting – blue plaid shirt he is wearing.

“Do I come up with nicknames for  _you_? Murret?” he asks, and you and the guy next to you – one of the camera guys – snort to each other. “You look like the rat from Kim Possible.”

“Joe says he wishes he could be here, but Millie is going to see her grandparents and as he put it ‘she hasn’t got her license yet’,” Q announces, and passes you a beer. “You like Sal’s shirt, hey?”

“You bought her a drink?” Sal asks, and Q looks panicked for a second – you raise an eyebrow, and he looks embarrassed. “Uh… she’s a twentieth-century girl, idiot, she can buy her own drinks.”

“…sure.” Q rolls his eyes, and you take a gulp of the beer. “So… you don’t have a boyfriend?” You look over at Murr – who shared that, you wonder, haha – and shake your head. “You live alone in New York? Nobody’s that sad.” He taps his tattoo, and you can’t help but grin. “You should get a cat.”

“I live in a twelfth-floor apartment. I have goldfish,” you laugh, and, out of the corner of your eye, you see Murr squeeze Sal’s arm – the larger man is looking relieved. Sal, you notice, hasn’t said a word directly to you all evening. What the hell is the matter? “Yeah… uh… I’m a dog person.”

“Boo!” Q grins, and Murr leans in. You are definitely feeling a bit weird now – why are they focusing mainly on  _you_? Why is Sal avoiding? You stand up.

“Just gonna go to the bathroom,” you announce, and march to the toilets – they’re tacky as hell, pink velvet (!) on the walls, but you shake your head and reapply your lipstick. It’s so weird – just… why would Sal care if you liked cats or not?

_Because he doesn’t like them either?_

No way. _N-o-p-e_.

If he liked you,  _and you’re not hoping he does_ , you hastily remind yourself, he would’ve… gone in the car with you. Or something.

 _He did freak out when Q bought you a drink_.

“Hey, (Y/N)!”

You turn, and one of the makeup ladies – you think her name is Emily – and she hugs you. She’s a little merry – in fact, most of the crew members are. It’s nice to know that they can all unwind together – you feel like a member of the family already, despite whatever weirdness is going on with the guys.

“Hey, Emily. How are you?” you ask, and she begins to fluff up her natural curly hair, before fishing around in her bag.

“I’ve had three glasses of whiskey and coke already. I’m stopping.  _Now_.” She laughs, and you grin in solidarity. “What do you like to drink? Sal’s looking to buy something for you, get you.” You pause, and stare at her, and she carries on applying mascara as if she hadn’t even said that. “I mean, I’m pretty sure it was just you. Didn’t Bri buy you a drink?”

“…uh…” You look dumbstruck, and she grins at you.

“Maybe you’ve caught his eye. Hope you don’t have a cat.” You stare at Emily, and she laughs, hugging you again. “Don’t worry! Probably not. Sorry to freak you out.” You nod, and swallow nervously, before marching back into the room.

Sal is, thank god, at the bar by himself, and you walk over to him, tapping his shoulder politely. You’d think you’d stabbed him in the kidney by the way he pales, but he summons up a smile.

“Uh, uh, hey, (Y/N). Are you having a good night? With everyone?”

“Not bad.” You clear your throat. “Sal, did you want to buy me a drink?”

He nearly drops his wallet, and stares at you.

“Uh, sorry. I… the… uh… who said that?”

“Never mind,” you say firmly. “You’ve been…” You start practising the walk out of your job with all your stuff mentally again, but the few bottles of beer in you are shouting a little too loudly. “Odd with me all night?”

“No! I mean, no, I just wanted to… there was a…” He visibly goes red. “Uh…”

His phone rings, and you see the relief outlined on it. He pulls it out of his pocket so quickly you’re pretty sure the seams will rip.

“Hey, Joey, man, what’s the…”

His phone is turned up very loud. In fact, he’s pressed speaker, you discover much later, many months after, when the two of you are laughing at it, but in the packed bar, only you and him can really hear Joe ask ‘ _so have you managed to chat (Y/N) up yet?_ ’.

Sal’s face is no longer red, it’s grey, and he hangs up without a word, shoving it in his pocket as it begins to ring again. You fold your arms, but your stomach is flipping. You shouldn’t want this, probably – it’s definitely not going to look good. But he’s a very nice man, and…

“Strawberry daiquiri,” you say, and he stares at you. “Please.” He nods, staring, and then looks around. “Did you… ask them to help…? By asking questions?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice almost silent, and you smile at him – you can’t help it. How could anyone not?

“Do it yourself, next time.” You step a little closer, and as he smiles, a smile that lights up your little corner of the bar, you can’t help but feel pleased.


End file.
